Eleven Steps
by patsan
Summary: When Matthew proposed on the night of the Servant's Ball, Mary wondered where was the happiness she'd always thought she'd feel at a moment like this, for she only felt cold, memories of bleary blue eyes and a broken voice coming back to haunt her. So she left and he let her, but before she went he made her a promise. Post Christmas Special AU.


Good Thursday lovely Downton Abbey fans :)

I'm currently in the middle of writing a multi-chapter S2 AU M/M fic, so this isn't exactly my first foray in this fandom, but this is the first fiction I'm letting go into the world and it's been years since the last time I wrote something for fun, meta-ish posts notwithstanding, so I'm just a little – ok, a lot! – nervous about it, but dear EOlivet boosted my ego enough for me to take the chance and share it with you.

I totally blame her for the idea too: we were talking about M/M on my livejournal and we both agreed that had Mary not been ready to accept him during the CS, Matthew would've respected her wishes and let her go, even if he himself was convinced they could make it work, so much he loves and respects her. A couple of lines from EOlivet in that comment kind of stuck in my mind and a sleepless night seemed like the perfect occasion to write that idea down and turn it into a fic.

Please keep in mind that in this scenario all the events of the CS happen, but Mary is in a much darker place – I'll leave the motivations for that to your imagination. The fic picks up right before the proposal scene, but goes AU right afterwards.

I would like to thank **EOlivet** for her brilliant assistance, this fic owes so much to her, as I do.

Enjoy! :)

_Disclaimer: these characters are not mine, I'm just, gladly, borrowing them for fun. Cover image courteously of marybelievesinimagination Tumblr  
_

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**Eleven Steps**

**1.**

It began the night of the Servant's Ball.

She'd needed some air towards the end of the evening and was now standing outside, the glow from the ballroom colouring the snow on the ground with golden warmth. She was holding her arms, taking advantage of the quietness to think about a future she'd never envisioned for herself (away from home, away from her family, away from everything she held dear) when she heard the crunch of feet approaching.

She was not surprised that it was Matthew. He said some nonsense about the ball, she gave him a smile and answered with some silly line of her own. He looked at her then, a soft expression mellowing the lines of his face, and asked if she really was going to America.

She didn't turn to answer, just kept staring into the distance, a noncommittal noise her only acknowledgement that she'd indeed heard the question.

There was silence, for a long minute there was just silence, standing between them like a unwelcomed third wheel. She breathed in the cold night air, relishing the sensation of it cooling her heated skin, slipping through the silk of her dress, the satin of her gloves, hitting her bared arms and freezing her cheeks. It seemed so fitting that her body would get cold so fast, it only matched the coldness that inhabited her heart these days.

In the end Matthew asked what she knew he would from the moment he'd looked at her and indicated the dance floor earlier that evening.

"Would you stay, if I asked you to?"

She looked at him and wondered where was the happiness she'd always thought she'd feel at a moment like this, for now she only felt cold, always cold, memories of bleary blue eyes – the same ones that were now gazing at her with such tenderness, such affection – coming back to haunt her and a broken voice and the shattering of all hope.

"Oh Matthew, you don't mean that." They were cursed, he knew it just as much as she did. They only hurt each other, and themselves, and brought other people down with them, breaking them, battering their hearts, stepping on their souls. Richard had given her a tight smile and a proud look, but his shoulders were hunched when he'd walked away from her. The cold earth encompassed sweet, lovely Lavinia, whose grave was a continuous reminder of everything she'd ruined, of all the suffering she'd brought upon the people surrounding her. And there was her father, who felt like the war had stolen all his certainties about the world and who could now see dark clouds coming up to rip his family to shreds. There was Edith, who'd grown spiteful and envious because she would always rub every little victory in her face. And there was Matthew, of course, watching her with half a smile curving his lips, and she could only wonder how could he even stand to stay so close to her. How very highly he must think of himself if he believed he would be immune to the curse she carried.

She remained silent for a few moments, shaking her head in desperation, waiting for tears to come – they didn't – waiting for him to go, for him to stay, she really didn't care after all the heartache and despair, and she shouldn't, the immunity from any kind of feelings she'd prayed for so long having finally found a way to conquer her heart and turn it into an empty place.

"What if I mean it?" Matthew asked after a while.

She smiled at his stubborn tone, a sad, dark curve of her mouth, for it was that very trait that had condemned them to this endless charade so long ago. Always loving and never understanding each other, forever reaching and never getting, poor timing and the wrong words taunting them right from the very beginning.

"You don't. You know yourself we carry more luggage than the porters at King's Cross. There's nothing to be done about it. That wasn't the end, but this is. Sometimes I wonder if there was a start at all."

She turned, her back facing him as she headed back inside. She was almost back into the warmth of her home – had she any right to call it so, now? – when his words reached her.

"I will always mean it, Mary. And I will always believe in us, even if you don't. Till you do, too, I will believe for the both of us."

She didn't turn, didn't give him a smile. She just stared in front of her and entered the house.

**2. **

She received the letter from her grandmother a week after the ball. It only took two days to book the tickets for the ship and prepare her luggage, her whole life squeezed in a wooden trunk and two leather cases. Her mother personally hired a good girl from the village – a young war widow named Lily, who had lost her only son to Spanish flu and was as keen to leave as she herself was – and within another week everything was set and ready.

She saw Matthew twice during those days, trying to catch her eyes at dinner and smiling at her from across the room. She averted her gaze and turned her face. She couldn't stand the sight of love shining through his every feature.

When the morning of the parting came, he was there, like her whole family. She stood in front of him, while he bowed his head, bright eyes looking quizzically up at her, like this was a challenge and he knew he would prove her wrong and win, but Mary felt cold and empty, and only gave him a blank stare in return. She was about to move towards the car, when she thought she needed to give him closure. He deserved the happiness he uselessly kept looking for in her.

"Go on with your life," she whispered, eyes low, unfocused on some point over his chest, "don't wait for me. I won't come back."

When she lifted her head his gaze captured hers and kept her there. A small, inconsequential smile lit up his face. "I'll always mean it," he said, and if he noticed his mother's face turn slightly towards him as he spoke he ignored it.

She blinked and stepped back. She received hugs from the rest of her family, promised to send a letter as soon as she could and got in the car.

She didn't look back.

**3.**

She was enjoying the sun, there on the highest deck of the ship, a book in one hand and her little white sunshade in the other. She'd left England a week ago and although she missed her home already she was beginning to feel the beneficial effects of the distance. Her mind was clearer, and her heart, albeit hollow, felt just a little lighter.

Lily was proving herself a competent lady's maid and a good companion, silent, respectful, struggling in her own way to leave behind a deserted land. Mary was always kind with her, making sure she was comfortable with her accommodation and giving her small tasks to keep her busy. She'd said it helped her not to think, when they first set foot on the ship, and Mary hoped it would ease her burden somehow.

She walked away from the railing, found a free chaise longue and sat herself down for her usual couple of hours of afternoon reading. She'd picked a new book from the few she'd personally chosen from her father's library and tasked Anna to load in her luggage. None of them was a novel, nor there were poetry books, only history and classics, Latin or Greek hadn't really mattered, as long as they were tragedies of lost heroes and entire nations punished for the sins of one.

She brushed her fingers over the golden decorated leather cover and opened the book. She was immediately sucked into a new ancient world, where good people always suffered terrible pain and the elderly whined for the curse that hovered over them all. After a while she felt the need to stretch her legs a little to find a more comfortable position, and just as she moved a small sheet of paper slid out of the book and at her feet. She raised her eyebrows and bent to retrieve it. She didn't recognise the handwriting, but the words on it made her heart skip a beat.

She stared at it for a full, long minute, merely contemplating the idea of just throwing it into the ocean and forgetting everything about it, but then she thought better of it and put it back into the book. She stood up and walked some more into the warm light of the setting sun before going back to her cabin to change for dinner.

She never picked up that book again, and the small note stayed between its pages, untouched, unseen for the whole time of the trip. She never looked at it again, but the five words, somehow, remained impressed into her heart.

_I will always mean it._

**4. **

There was a grand party in her honour a week after she arrived. Her grandmother had insisted on it, but had allowed her a few days of rest in order to recuperate and adapt to the time change.

She was presented as the British Lady that she was, daughter of an Earl, aristocratic grace shining through her every move. She saw men admiring her, women looking at her, some in admiration, some in untrusting anticipation, but she cared for none of it. She did what was expected of her, smiling elegantly and exchanging empty words with everyone who was introduced to her and by the end of the evening a splitting headache was her constant companion.

She went to bed that night spent and cold – she was always cold.

She missed Downton, she missed her beloved family. And, unfortunately, sometimes she even missed him.

As she turned on her side, shutting off the light on her nightstand, for the first time in many months, she let herself think of what she'd left behind. Memories came back, and laughs and sobs, and shaking hands and trembling lips. And a cold night, with burning eyes and an empty heart that couldn't feel any flame at all.

She closed her eyes and finally _finally_ allowed herself to cry.

Sleep, when it came, found her this way.

**5. **

A whole month passed before she even knew it.

She spent her days reading in the farthest corner of the garden of the house, so grand it almost seemed as though she was in the country rather than so near the city. Sometimes she went into the city – the Metropolitan Museum, the American Museum of Natural History, a walk into Central Park, the shadow of its trees alleviating the heat of the unseasonably hot April. Her evenings were occupied by dinners, both at home and as a guest of some minister or important businessman, her grandmother working all her connections to introduce her granddaughter to the best of the New York society.

Sometimes she saw people stop talking when she approached and put on their best smile – always too late and brighter than was appropriate – and chat with her like they weren't sharing gossip about her the minute before. She always smiled until her cheeks hurt.

One time she overheard two maids talking about the lady that Mrs. Levinson housed. They said she was beautiful, but she had sad eyes.

Mary never asked her grandmother if she knew why she was here, if her mother had told her anything at all, never thought of questioning what was she doing making her do the rounds as an art piece to be put up for auction. Whatever her plans, she never shared them.

Edith wrote informing her that Richard had published after all. The scandal was in full force in London, but at Downton, she assured, life went on as it always did. She even thought she would be giving her good news concerning herself in the next letter and Mary smiled reading these last few lines, for she knew exactly what her sister meant and was glad she hadn't ruined everything, at least for her. She also said she was sorry for sending the letter that started it all, but Mary's answer on that point was short. _It's all in the past._

She asked for news from home, not daring to put Matthew's name on the paper, but longing to know if he was alright, if the scandal had affected him in some way or his job in Ripon – but surely they wouldn't send away a lawyer who'd proven himself so valuable time and time again, both before and after the war. Still, she didn't ask. She put the letter away to be sent and went outside for her usual walk.

A couple of days after that a parcel arrived for her. It contained a small poetry book – some modern poet, Pitter was her name – and attached to it there was a note. She didn't need to read it to know what it said. She put it into the book and laid it on her nightstand.

That night she finally read poetry.

_The end of true love is to sit and mourn._

**6.**

A few more weeks passed and she found herself one day talking with her grandmother about the maid she'd brought with her from England. She was settling in very well and the rest of the household was kind to her. Mary knew she liked the house and she was glad she could see the signs of a slow recovery starting. She smiled and followed the older woman out of the car.

Later that night she was looking at herself in the mirror of her room when Lily asked if she didn't mind the lace of her corset being pulled this much. Mary frowned gently and asked what she meant.

"It just won't hold if I pull as much as I usually do, milady, you're so thin now that it would just fall from around you, but I don't want it to be too tight."

The corset – much softer than the ones she used to wear before the war – felt fine and Lily finished preparing her for the evening as Mary kept staring at her figure the whole time, noticing now that she really did look thinner.

"You think I don't eat enough, Lily?"

The maid's eyebrows shot up, but if she was surprised that she'd been asked such a direct question, she pulled herself together very quickly and answered with a kind voice Mary had never heard her use before.

"Your ladyship always looked slim, but if you don't mind my saying so, milady, I believe that eating both the toasts I bring you up in the morning would be better than eating only half of them."

She stared at the maid in the mirror, taking in the little woman behind her, considering all that she'd gone through, what a comfort sometimes her presence alone was. She nodded then and thanked her – although if for her help or her words Mary didn't know.

When she took the tray from the hands of her maid the next morning, dismissing her with a grateful smile, Mary thought that she wasn't the only one keeping an eye on someone else's recovery after all. And later that day, as Lily entered her lady's room to clean it, the tray was lying on the bed and there wasn't any food left on it.

**7. **

When May turned into June, she was informed they would be spending half the summer in the countryside and half near the ocean, with a few important parties and dinners already lined up for her. She nodded respectfully, having no complaint at all as to where they'd spent their time, and excused herself before going outside, a book her usual companion on these windy early summer afternoons. This one had been delivered a couple of weeks before.

One day one of her younger cousins saw the little pile of books lined up carefully in her room and asked why she kept ordering novels and poetry from home when New York had so many fabulous libraries and book shops where she could find everything she wanted, old or new. The corner of Mary's lips quirked, but otherwise her expression remained neutral and she said nothing. After a while the young girl left the room and her lips curved in half a smile. It was of remembrance and maybe tenderness, as she pondered just how similar to Edith – a younger, acerbic version of her sister – cousin Emmalyn was.

If her grandmother also wondered about who sent these books she never asked and Mary never said, although she had a feeling she knew anyway.

A couple of days later they were having breakfast, all set to leave in the afternoon so they would arrive in time to change for dinner, when the butler entered and gave her a small parcel, posted from Ripon. She took it graciously, finished her breakfast and went to her room. When her door closed behind her she sat on the bed and opened it. This time the book was thin, with a red silk cover and shiny silver letters: it read _The Tale of Eros and Psyche_.

Mary opened it to find the note that never failed to make her heart speed up. She found it, neatly folded. The pads of her fingers skimmed over it before finally picking it up, putting the book aside.

A little smile graced her lips as she felt herself blush for the first time since it all had began. This time the usual five words were followed by two others.

_I will always mean it._

_Love, Matthew_

**8.**

June became July and Mary began thinking that she really liked it here, the ocean making the air spark with salt and freshness as she walked on the beach, Emmalyn and her sisters in tow and a couple of old maids acting like chaperons – really, as if she wasn't a chaperon herself, a maiden cousin twice their age. Even so she missed Britain. She wasn't exactly homesick, but part of her longed for home.

She often dreamt of Matthew, and they weren't the terrible nightmares she'd had for many months after Lavinia's death, but there always was a gentle smile, and a teasing glint in bright blue eyes, and a strand of golden hair flopping onto his creased brow, and a glimpse of his warm and soft hands. When she woke up from these dreams she was always smiling and her good humour was infectious for the other occupants of the elegant sea house. If she felt up to it these days she would read some poems to her cousins, explaining the hardest passages to them when they asked. Afterwards the youngest, a dark haired child, with wide green eyes, would hug her at her waist and pray that cousin Mary would never leave them.

One day she saw her grandmother looking at them through the window. She was smiling. For some reason Mary had a vision of children surrounding her, and a tall blond man by her side, and an old, clever lady smiling down at her in the exact same way.

**9. **

It was mid September by the time they came back to New York. The days were still warm enough for her to take walks outside if she liked, but the evenings had a chill about them that required woollen coats and warm, soft gloves over their silken ones. She was peeling them off one night, before giving her coat to the nearest waiter, when she caught a glimpse of tall a man with his back to her. She knew he wasn't Matthew, he couldn't be, in her last letter Edith had written he was in London working hard on Bates' case, which they were about to crack thanks to the joined forces of Matthew, Murray and a couple a famous solicitors from the city.

Still, her heart leaped into her chest and she noticed that her hands were shaking. Her grandmother asked if everything was alright, but she could muster an answer only after the man finally turned to reveal he wasn't Matthew at all. She breathed in relief and followed her grandmother to greet the house guests. And yet some other feeling lingered in her breast all evening long, warming her in a way she hadn't felt in a while.

Later that night, as Lily helped her prepare for bed, after she'd bid her goodnight with a bow of her head and an affectionate smile, and Mary was left alone lying on the soft mattress reliving the pleasant evening, she was surprised to find out it was hope.

She was smiling when sleep finally claimed her and her lips formed one word, reverently, lovingly.

_Matthew_.

**10.**

A week later she was sitting on her favourite bench in the garden, a book at her side, eyes closed, taking in the quietness, the swish of the leaves above her, the softness of the grass under her shoes. She heard footsteps approaching and she opened her eyes to greet the butler and his usual message that her grandmother was waiting for her so they could have their weekly tea together – a British ritual she'd introduced as soon as she'd arrived, all these months ago, as a welcome sign of sorts or so she'd thought.

Only it wasn't Mr. James walking towards her.

Mary stared with wide eyes as her darling _darling Matthew_ made his way towards her with slow, sure steps, his hair glowing into the late afternoon sun. His eyes were the same shadow of luminous blue she remembered from her dreams and he was smiling, openly, widely, lovingly.

She rose to her feet, hands clutching each other in front of her chest, her breath suddenly shallow while she waited for him to come to her. When he arrived and stood right in front of her, she looked up at him and locked her eyes with his, lips quirking in a trembling smile.

He took her ungloved hand – a costume she blamed on her American surroundings, Granny wouldn't be pleased – and kissed it reverently. Her grin only grew wider and she put her arms around him, clung to him, holding him to her, breathing in his smell and pressing her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. She hid her face in the hollow of his throat as she finally let go of the past and cried.

"It's all right," he said enveloping her in his arms, his whole body warming her, protecting her, loving her. He pressed light kisses on her hair, rubbing his hands up and down her back, whispering words she'd never thought she would ever hear from him.

When the tears finally stopped, she drew back just enough to see his handsome face. The love she could read in his clear eyes made her heart leap.

He brushed away the remainder of her tears with his thumbs, holding her face in his warm hands, his long fingers caressing her cheeks. She turned her head and kissed his palm, then put one of her hands onto his, while with the other she traced his features. Her fingers lingered on the crease on his brow, his straight nose, the smooth cheek – slightly rounder that she remembered, but it suited him, didn't make him any less beautiful in her eyes – the softness of his lips. He kissed the tips of her fingers and she smiled, then laughed, while a kind of happiness she'd never felt before filled every corner of her heart.

He chuckled with her, then took her hands again bringing them to his chest. He whispered, "my darling Mary. My very darling Mary..."

She closed her eyes, relishing the endearment, engraving the love she felt in his voice in her mind and soul.

"Thank you for the books," she said at last, when she could finally find a way to make her voice work again.

He grinned. "You're welcome. I wondered at first if you'd keep them, but then Edith promised me you were keeping and reading them."

"Darling Edith," she said, and it surprised her how easily she associated the word with her sister's name now. "Grandmama must have kept her informed of my every movement."

He smiled, a shadow passing his eyes for just a moment. "We were worried for you. _I_ was worried for you, I'm afraid I tried to convince Anna to leave that first note in one of your books a little too forcefully."

She rested her forehead against his, eyes closed, smiling softly, the five words she'd kept reading for all these months easily finding their way through her mind. "You really meant it," was all she said.

He drew back a little and brushed her cheek with his fingers. "I really meant it. I always will."

She nodded, bowing her head, feeling a warm blush creep upon her cheeks. He was so close, his smell surrounding her, his heat radiating through her clothes – they were so improperly pressed together.

Finally she raised her eyes to meet his, locking them with his, squeezing the hand that was still holding hers. Her breath caught in her throat.

"So...," he said, "will you come home with me? England is a lot colder without you."

She chuckled, slowly shaking her head. "After sending me all the poetry I see you yourself became a poet."

He laughed openly, freely and her heart swelled with love for him. When he looked at her again, a small smile was playing on his lips. He looked deeply into her eyes and she felt her breath quicken.

"Then will you?"

She stared at him lovingly, her smile trembling and her eyes telling him everything he needed to know. Still, a lady needed certain standards. So she grinned, teasingly, and cleared her throat before speaking. "You must say it properly, you know, even if we are in America now. You must kneel down and everything or I won't answer."

And as he gave her a look, as he went down on his knee and took both her hands in his, thumbs slowly caressing the back of her naked hands, as he asked if she would do him the honour of becoming his wife, there was only a word she could think of, so of course that was what she said.

"Yes."

**11.**

Lady Mary Crawley and Mr. Matthew Crawley were married on a late October morning in the Downton village church, the autumn sun giving a golden brightness to the bride's gown and making the groom's hair shine like some sort of halo.

All the family had turned up for the wedding, included the American branch of it, with Emmalyn and her sisters sitting proudly on Mary's side. The ceremony was lovely as was the wedding lunch after that and many tears were shed like when the vicar finally allowed the groom to kiss his bride or when the newlywed couple shared their first dance, heads close, cheeks almost touching, lips murmuring words that belonged to them and them alone, as the whole family revelled in their happiness.

They left for their honeymoon a few days after the wedding, visiting Greece and Italy first, and then the green fields of France, where Matthew made peace with his ghosts while Mary fought some of her own, holding each other in the cold autumn breeze. They went to America too, and celebrated New Years Eve in New York, officially introducing Matthew as the future Earl and Mary's husband _("Why is that I'm always your husband and never the other way around?" "Darling, be sensible, you might be my father's heir, but you still are a country solicitor. Even my American relatives know how to do things properly"_. Her great-aunt Rosmerta looked slightly shocked by such disrespectful words coming from her great-niece's mouth, but the husband only grinned and winked at his wife and Rosmerta had a feeling she was entirely missing something).

A few days after that Emmalyn made her cousin promise that she would invite her to Downton next summer, which she did after exchanging a look and a smile with the girl's mother on the other side of the room, but on the condition that she would bring her sisters with her. Emmalyn found it acceptable.

They were home in time for the 1921 Servant's Ball and they had made sure of it. They had a special announcement to make and they could barely keep from bursting out with love and happiness. More than that, however, they thought it was important to mark anniversaries. Matthew had insisted upon it and Mary had nodded, gently linking her fingers with his.

Now they stood in front the entrance of the grand house, looking up at the building and smiling. Matthew even had time to steal a kiss from his wife's lips before Carson's face appeared into the doorway, an affectionate twinkle in the older man's eyes.

They made their way into the magnificent hall, Mary's hand on her husband's arm. A soft smile curved her lips. It was good to be here, she thought, in this very place where almost exactly one year ago her heart had began to heal at the sound of five simple words.

_I will always mean it._

And he really did.

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_Sooo... that's it. Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed the ride!_

_I'd be thrilled to know what you thought about it :)_


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